


Soon and Inevitably

by redbellpepper



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book References, Friends to Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i just want to do things my own way with the whole 27 years later thing, so many it's like an easter egg hunt, still pretty canon compliant, there's still a clown but we'll get to him when we get to him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbellpepper/pseuds/redbellpepper
Summary: Richie remembers - except he doesn't.He remembers skin under his fingers and a laugh ringing in his ears. He remembers a smile that is blinding. He remembers that there is a part of him out there in the world that he has been living without for so long, and he wants it back.He wants it back.





	Soon and Inevitably

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this thing about three years ago, just now deciding to post it!! Pretty canon-ish. It's 27 years later, but I'll be taking the whole reunion/clown-killing thing in my own direction. Richie is a goddamn mess, but that's why we love him.
> 
> Probably FULL of mistakes. Yell at me in the comments or just move on and pretend you didn't see this mess of a fic.

_He feels skin beneath his fingers. Lips at the tips of his thumbs as he pulled him – who? – away from – what? – and he remembers, he distinctly remembers saying ‘Look at me’ and ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ And he wonders how he can possibly forget the face his hands are holding, a face that he apparently loves, loves, loves. He remembers a sickening crack of bone and then_

Richie Tozier wakes up and slams the snooze button so hard he thinks he’s broken the clock. He’s drenched with sweat. His chest heaves. He’s woken up like this so many mornings, he doesn’t think much about it anymore. He rolls over and stares at the closed bathroom door. Steam rolls out of it, the shower running, and Richie has to shut his eyes and concentrate hard to picture the woman who must be in there. Brunette, probably. Freckles? Sounds familiar. Then again, a brunette with freckles and big brown eyes is his type. His friends at the radio station tease him for managing to take home a different version of the same woman every night.

The alarm goes off again, and Richie yanks the plug out of the wall. He jerks it too hard, though, and his hand hits the nightstand, and the book he was reading falls to the floor with a loud thud. The lamp nearly follows, but Richie catches it. The water stops, and after a couple seconds, there’s that voice that Richie was trying so hard to remember.

“What are you doing out there?” The woman calls, and Richie groans as he swings his feet down to touch the cold floor. He picks up the book and holds it on his lap, clearing his throat.

“Just knocked some shit over.” He’s tired. He already wants this woman to go home so he can have a second to himself before he goes to work. His apartment is a mess. Clothes litter the floor, empty takeout containers are strewn across the counter. Empty beer bottles on the kitchen table. A lot of them. No wonder Richie can’t remember what this girl looks like. Or even her name, for that matter. He slips his boxers on and makes his way to the kitchen, where her purse lies by the table. He feels like a complete piece of shit as he rifles through it, looking for her license so he can learn her name – but he’d feel like an even worse piece of shit if he ushered her out of his apartment without even learning her name.

He finds her wallet quickly and opens it to see her license.

Bethany Whitman.

That’s right, Betty. He called her Betty. He vaguely remembers telling her how cute that name was. He remembers pinching her cheeks and saying _‘Cute, cute, cute!’ _and oh, how she giggled at that. She shouldn’t have giggled, Richie thought for some inexplicable reason. She should have been annoyed. She should have knocked his hands away from his face and flipped him off.

But she didn’t.

And that was – it was okay.

It was fine.

Richie slipped the wallet back in the purse and retreated to the bedroom, where Betty was just getting out of the shower. She wore her black underwear and bra, and dried her long brown hair with a towel as she shuffled around the room, looking for her clothes. She flashed Richie a smile.

“You know how to show a girl a good time, Records Tozier,” She grinned, and Richie bit back a groan. That’s right. She was a fan. She’d gone on and on about how much she loved his show, how funny he was, how nobody could do voices like he could – Richie had kissed her just to shut her up. He wondered if she would tell her friends all about the night she just spent with Richie ‘Records’ Tozier. At least it would be all good things. Not that Richie remembered much, but the way she was smiling at him, those freckled cheeks all pink, it must have been pretty great.

She turned to pick up her shirt and Richie saw a bite mark on her freckled shoulder. No doubt that was his handy work. Slim, pale shoulders covered in freckles – Richie went nuts for that shit. He briefly glanced down at himself. He was still long and gangly, all arms and legs. Just like he was when he was a kid. The only thing that had changed were his eyes. Contacts instead of glasses. He never thought he looked all that handsome, but he guessed his Voices and his status as a minor celebrity made up for it.

“Rich?”

Richie looked up sharply only to see the girl – Betty, her name was Betty – looking at him expectantly. She’d asked him something. Oh.

“Uh. What?”

Betty laughed, like it was the funniest thing.

“I asked if you wanted to grab breakfast.” She perched on the edge of the bed, big, soft eyes shining with anticipation. Her cheeks were round and rosy. She was cute. She really was.

“I can’t,” Richie said, and her shoulders – those freckled things covered in bite marks – fell slightly. “I’ve got work. It’s my seven-year anniversary on the station, so it’s a full day. Show will be an extra two hours. The guys are taking me out afterwards. You know.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot,” Betty said, gasping. “You told me that yesterday. I totally forgot, I’m sorry.”

Richie almost snorted.

“No harm done,” He said, averting his eyes from hers. “We had a lot to drink.”

He started moving toward the door, going to open it. God, he was a dick. Betty stood up and shifted hesitantly as he opened the old wooden door.

“Well, I still had a great time,” She said. “I’d love to go out again sometime. You know, on a day that’s not so busy.”

“Yeah,” Richie said absent-mindedly, and she laughed again. Richie felt his cheeks heat up. He wished she’d stop laughing at him.

“You are on another planet this morning, aren’t you?” She asked, and Richie shrugged, flashing her a smile and feeling overwhelmingly guilty for being such an asshole.

“I guess you just rocked my world. Or, you know, rocked me out of this world. Or, like. You know. You get what I’m trying to say.”

“I guess I do,” Betty giggled, and leaned in. She probably expected the kiss to be chaste. Just a quick peck, and then she would be off, just like all the others. But when she leaned in, Richie had an inexplicable surge within him and grabbed her face to pull her towards him.

_Freckled cheeks under his hands, fingers clutching desperately, ‘Look at me, I love you, please look at me.’ A gasp, a sharp inhale, and then_

“Wow,” Betty said breathlessly when Richie released her. He grinned. Everything inside him was screaming and he didn’t know why. He never knew why.

“Bye,” He said, and then the door was closed and her footsteps faded and Richie was alone again.

* * *

_He remembers two hands. Slender and small and extending the middle finger. He remembers laughing at that, and he remembers the mouth behind those hands, curving into a smile no matter how it tried not to. And Richie would reach forward and_

* * *

“Fucking finally.”

Richie took off his headphones and tossed them in front of him, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face. His producer, a fiery redhead named Veronica, hit a few buttons and transitioned to the news. Richie’s “On Air” sign became dark. He glanced over to Veronica, who was already rolling her eyes at him through the glass. She rolled her chair back and made her way through the door separating Richie’s studio from her station.

“You could have waited until we were off the air to say that,” She said, and Richie laughed. “People like to think that you actually enjoy doing your little ventriloquist act.”

“I can’t even tell you how ignorant you sound, Ron,” Richie said. He folded his hands behind his head and rocked back and forth in his chair. “You sound like you’re almost patronizing me. Luckily I know that you secretly respect and cherish my intellectual and thought-provoking Voices.”

“The only thing about those Voices that I cherish is the fact that they pay the bills.”

“Hear, hear.”

Richie started his Voices way back in grade school. They were bad. His friends would roll their eyes and cover their ears at every new impression, accent, whatever he happened to come up with that day – but he didn’t stop no matter how much his friends groaned. He barely remembered his friends, anyways. They were your basic childhood buddies, Richie assumed. They grew apart in high school, they went to college, they never saw each other again. Besides, Richie blocked a lot of that time of his life out. His drunk mother. His distant father who only appeared when it was time to discipline Richie. Not much worth remembering.

In college, he got a job as a DJ on their campus radio – and when more and more people started listening, he got the job of running the station. People stared recognizing him by his voice. They demanded more, and Richie, who spent his childhood unnoticed by his family, gladly gave his peers what they wanted. On weekends, he did stand-up comedy, and in between all that, he got by in his classes. By the time he was 25, he had somehow secured a spot at KWCL, the most popular station in Maine – and now, at 32, his face and name were on buses and benches, and women at bars were falling all over him.

He loved his Voices. He loved everything about them.

Sometimes he wished more people would roll their eyes and groan at him. He didn’t know why he wished that. Maybe that’s why he hired Veronica. She didn’t take any part in his bullshit. And every time she flipped him off or told him to shut the fuck up, Richie felt strangely warm. He felt home. Not home as in his parents’ shitty house in the city, but home as in…home. A place he couldn’t quite describe.

_The softest smile and a loud snort in the middle of laughter, red shorts and tennis shoes and_

“How was last night?” Veronica asked, and Richie pinched the bridge of his nose. Betty was right. He was somewhere else today. Even during his show, he faded in and out, like he wasn’t really there, like his mind was back in – where? Where was he?

“That bad, huh?”

“Not too bad. Met a lovely young woman named Betty.” Richie leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Oh, did you? How’d that go?”

“Ron, you know I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Bullshit.”

“Come on, Ron, I can barely even remember last night.” He paused. “She looked great coming out of the shower this morning, though.”

“Jesus. You’re the worst.”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least you’re self-aware.”

When Richie opened his eyes, Veronica was sitting across from him, one shot glass in front of each of them. Each glass had a picture of Richie’s face on it. It was an old picture that his audience adored. It was about 17 years old – Richie as a kid, with unruly curly hair and glasses that took up half his face. He didn’t even know how the picture got out. Probably Veronica, digging up dirt on him, trying to embarrass him. Richie grinned. He lifted the glass. Veronica lifted hers.

“To another seven years, Tozier.”

“Oh, fuck me.”

They downed their shots. When Veronica slammed her glass down, she gave Richie a hard look. He was used to that look. He loved it. It came right before a challenge.

“Who’re you gonna pick up tonight? The guys are taking you out, right?”

“Oh, who knows. I might just have a quiet night to myself. Leave the bar early, read a book, drink some tea. Maybe take up knitting.”

Veronica snorted, then her face changed. She played with her glass, turning it to the right, and then the left. She was thinking. Hard. Richie became impatient waiting for her to say whatever she was thinking – with Veronica, he never usually had to prod. It drove him crazy when she was quiet like this. She did it on purpose.

“What?” He finally asked.

“What are you looking for?” She asked finally, meeting his eyes. “All these women. Your longest relationship was with that producer two years ago – and even that was…”

“Even that was what?” Richie asked. He felt irrationally defensive.

“It wasn’t real. She was cute and totally your type, but you never talked about her. You were never excited to go home to her. All your other relationships last about eight hours. What are you looking for, Rich?”

Richie shrugged petulantly. “I dunno.”

“There are some really beautiful, funny, smart girls out there. But you just go to bars and pick up these women who you’ll never see again. Women you don’t care about seeing again. Do you really not want anything more serious?”

“Why should I?” Richie asked. “Just because people my age usually settle down and have a family? Just because my friends are doing it? That’s called peer pressure, Ron, and I rise above that.”

“Knock it off, Rich. I really want to know. I’ve been your producer for six years – give me a straight answer for once.”

And if he could have, he would have. But Richie didn’t know. He had no idea what he was looking for. Well – he had some sort of vague idea. But he’d sound insane if he told anybody. Veronica would think he’s crazy if he told her that when he had sex – when he was biting freckled shoulders and kissing lips with everything he got and turning women over on all fours – he felt so _close _to something. When his heart was pounding and he closed his eyes and let himself disappear, it was there. There was something right _there, _and he was so close to touching it, remembering it, feeling it, and before he could ever do any of those things, it was over. It was the same feeling he had when he woke up out of breath and sweating. Like if he’d just slept a little longer, dreamt just a few more minutes, he would have had it. He never got it. But he kept trying.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Maybe you’re right, I need to start actually trying to meet women. Not just going to bars to pick up some girl who’ll be out of my life the next day.”

“If you need someone to hook you up, I’m your girl. You wouldn’t believe the connections I’ve got.”

“I’ll let you know,” Richie laughed, and stood up. He felt the same itch to get out as he did when a woman slept over. The same uncomfortable need to move. To get somewhere. Anywhere. He opened the door and looked over his shoulder.

“Are you coming?”

_Looking over his shoulder to check if he was still there, and sure enough, he was. Slow and cautious and complaining the whole time, but right there. Brown eyes meeting Richie’s blue ones, forehead creased in worry, and Richie laughing about it. He extended his hand so that maybe he would take it and catch up with him, and that same hand that flipped him off and patched him up reached to_

“Yeah, give me a half hour. Got some work to finish up. I’ll meet you guys at the bar.”

“Yeah, more like, you forgot to get me an anniversary present and you’re gonna go buy one real quick.”

“Your present is my sparkling personality and unwavering loyalty, jackass.”

“I was hoping for a new watch.”

Veronica flips him off one last time before leaving the booth.

* * *

Three hours later, Richie is wasted. His friends from the station are beside him, roaring with laughter at jokes that wouldn’t be so funny if they weren’t all so drunk. Richie is doing his Voices, albeit a little slurred, and his friends are eating it up. The bartender is cute – both of them are, actually – and Richie thinks they’re both into him, although he’s not paying that much attention. He’s trying to forget those vague, foggy flashes of old memories. Well, not memories – if they were memories, he would remember them. Simple as that. A dream, maybe. A dream that feels painfully, _terrifyingly_ real.

Being drunk is fantastic. Richie loses pockets of time. Nothing too concerning, of course. Just in the way that you lose time when you’re drunk, and then you come back to yourself, and everyone is laughing at a joke you just made, and that’s the only thing happening in the world. There’s no reality, there’s no dream. There’s just existence, here in this bar, with an attractive bartender making eyes at him and a crowd of bodies packed too tightly together. Richie lets himself laugh in an uninhibited, unembarrassed way where he throws his head back and closes his eyes and tries to fly, with the way the ground shifts beneath his feet. When he comes back, when he stops flying and starts falling, he notices the cute bartender is gone. Richie looks around and sees them slipping out the back door to the alley. Smoke break. Perfect.

“I’ll be right back, all right?” He says, and one of his friends claps him on his back, clearly distracted with his own pursuit, clearly not giving a shit. Richie straightens his jacket and makes his way toward the back door. His head feels light. He smiles and nods at a small group of women who watch him as he walks by. He feels their eyes on him as he slips out of the bar and hopes that none of them try to follow him.

Richie casually leans against the wall and pulls out a cigarette, glancing around. The bartender is a shadow against the dimly lit street, wrapped in a cloud of smoke. Richie clears his throat.

“Got a light?” He asks, and the bartender turns, looking Richie up and down.

“Come on over.”

Richie sticks his hands in his pockets and closes the distance between them, cigarette dangling between his lips. The bartender leans forward, closer than is necessary, never breaking eye contact as the cigarette is lit.

“Thanks,” Richie says around the cigarette. He takes it out of his mouth and exhales. “I’m Richie.”

“I’m David.”

_Richie can’t stop smiling at the other’s scowl. He feels excited. He feels nervous. He feels like something is going to happen, not now, not right in this moment, but soon, and inevitably. _

“Won’t your friends miss you?” David asks, nodding briefly at the door to the bar. Richie shrugs, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it out.

“I thought you might like some company,” Richie says, and David grins again. He flicks his cigarette to the ground and rounds on Richie so that their clouds of breath in the cold air intermingle. Richie stares him down, eyes locked on David’s. Blue eyes. Smooth, olive-colored cheeks. Different. But that’s okay. That’s…fine.

“I’ve heard of you,” David says, and Richie snorts.

“Yeah? You just a fan who’s trying to get into my pants?”

“Nah, I only said I heard of you. Not that I listen to you. You’re only half right.”

“I can live with that,” Richie breathes, and already, as his head spins and he tosses his cigarette to the ground, he finds himself sinking to his knees. Richie thinks of the first time he was with a man. College. Senior year. He was with a few men that year.

In fact, Richie was so totally convinced of his heterosexuality until he got drunk at a house party with his communications TA – a thin, matter-of-fact, high-strung man who spoke quickly and nervously, but Jesus, did he have a good smile. Richie remembered thinking how adorable he was, with all that nervous energy and passion bundled up inside him. He also remembered being strangely sad when he was with him. No matter how much they laughed together, no matter how many joking insults they threw each other’s way – Richie felt a sharp pain in his chest every time he looked at the man. That pain was magnified times ten when Richie drunkenly leaned forward and kissed him that night, and later, when Richie had him on his back and slipped inside him, Richie had cried. The TA was sweet as Richie wiped at his eyes, frustrated and confused. He told the guy that it was his first time with a man. It was true. But it felt like a lie. Richie felt sick and they went home separately.

Richie made it a point never to speak to him again, but continued sleeping with men. Each time, it felt so familiar. It also felt frustrating and painful and he always woke up with a sharp, powerful headache. He never once attempted a relationship with a man. He felt hollow at the thought.

But those nights gave Richie something that nothing else did. Not women, not drunkenness, not dreaming. It brought him closer to that thing, that _fucking thing _that Richie couldn’t even name. It brought him so close that he wanted to scream, to shut his eyes and just _try harder, do something_ to find out what it was that he didn’t know. It was almost like he was trying to remember something that never happened. Conjure a memory from thin air.

Richie’s eyes glaze over as he undoes David’s belt. He hears David make a soft noise and looks up to see the bartender resting his head against the brick wall he’s pressed up against. Richie can’t remember ever giving a man a blow job – he remembered the first time a guy in college wanted Richie to suck him off, and Richie had recoiled at the thought. He didn’t like them, Richie had said. He didn’t

_Richie tugs the boxers off the boy beneath him, who is squirming and gasping, and Richie’s smiling. He doesn’t believe he gets to see him like this. Richie drops his mouth to the boy’s chest, and the boy whines – _

“Oh, my god,” Richie breathes as he frees David’s cock from his jeans. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, and he’s sure that David is smirking above him. But Richie isn’t saying these things because he’s blown away by David’s size. He’s barely looking at David, now. He’s trying to retreat back into his head, because god, my god, that boy has a voice – that faceless, blurry stranger who only appears flashes has a voice, and Richie wants to

_His mouth travels lower, he kisses his belly button softly. He loves that. He loves kissing the expanse of skin on his chest and stomach. And below that, he is bare. They’ve never done this before. But then Richie feels hands in his hair, and oh, that’s it. The boy gasps and shudders and moans again, and Richie wants him to speak, just say something, and he licks his belly button and the boy says “Jesus,”_

Richie moans loudly, surprised, scared, excited, and plants a kiss on David’s navel. There’s a boy in his head – seventeen, eighteen years old maybe – and he’s talking, he’s finally fucking talking, and if only Richie could keep remembering. He peppers kisses all over David’s stomach. David starts to get eager and puts his hands in Richie’s hair

_Richie moves lower, they haven’t done this before and he’s nervous, but he’s barely thinking as he opens his mouth and says “I wanna suck you off,” and then_

“Come on,” David says, so

_There’s a horrible gasping sound and Richie looks up_

David pushes Richie forward and Richie takes David in his mouth and he’s so angry he could fucking explode. He can’t see the guy’s face. He was about to see it. He was so close. And now he can’t see anything. Richie closes his eyes tightly, willing the memory – how can it be a memory if it never happened? – to come back. There’s nothing for a while, just the sounds of David grunting above him, but then

_“Oh, god, Jesus, stop, please Richie, I can’t breathe”_

Richie jerks back, earning a displeased noise from David. He can barely tell what’s real anymore

_Richie stops without a second thought and the boy pushes away from him, crowds himself against the headboard_

“What’s wrong?”

_“What’s wrong? Hey, baby, it’s okay, tell me what’s wrong, please. It’s okay.”_

David’s hand slides from Richie’s hair to his cheek

_Richie moves forward and reaches out, making shushing sounds, his heart in his throat_

Richie blinks and clear his eyes, looking back at David

_His thighs are covered in scratches, and Richie can only look at them for a second before the horrible noise of gasping for air brings him back to look at big, teary eyes and a smattering of freckles_

David moves to pull Richie forward again but he’s too far gone. He’s so close to seeing, to remembering, and he shoots away and gets to his feet. He can barely register David swearing angrily. Richie presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and doubles over, muttering to himself

_“Come on, come on,” Richie is saying as softly as he can through the lump in his throat. “Talk to me. You’re okay.” The boy looks away and his breathing begins to soften, but his shoulders are shaking now, his hands hiding his face. His words are muffled so that Richie can barely hear his choked apology_

“What the fuck, man?” David demands, putting an aggressive hand on Richie’s shoulder and spinning him around. He’s pulled his jeans back up and his cheeks are red. Richie shakes his head angrily, not wanting to speak. He doesn’t want to lose the moment. He doesn’t want to forget. David keeps talking. He’s so fucking loud. “I mean –

_“What happened?” Richie asks, _and the air turns cold and the blood drains from Richie’s face as the boy turns to look at him and says

_“That’s what **It **wanted from me.”_

Richie can’t speak. He hears his voice, he sees his freckles and his big brown eyes all twisted with fear and shame. There’s a real person, in pain, and Richie kissed him once. Richie loved him. He can feel it so powerfully and it’s suddenly so clear that Richie feels relieved, scared, heartbroken, all at once. There’s a real person that Richie is trying to remember, and he doesn’t know how or why. But he needs to get him back.

David curses angrily – he’s been talking the entire time – and finally gives up. He wrenches open the door to the bar and then slams it shut behind him, leaving Richie in the alley. Richie just stares into space, replaying that voice in his head. The whining and moaning. The sudden hysteric screaming for Richie to stop. Richie feels an overwhelming urge to protect this boy, this man, this person who is walking around out there in the world. Whoever he is.

Richie closes his eyes and stumbles. He reaches out and steadies himself.

It’s started to snow.

Richie opens his eyes _and he’s taking the boy’s cheek in his hand, and the boy is shaking violently, and Richie’s heart breaks as he says_

“Eddie.”

Then Richie collapses.


End file.
